Acts of Violets (23 page)

“I prefer my flowers brewed into a tea, thank you.” Grace took a tentative bite, swallowed, and smiled. “Outstanding. Shall you tell us about the wonderful lady who created this masterpiece?”

“And
then
tell us about Mr. Gorgeous,” Lottie said.

Over the rest of the cake and several cups of tea, I filled them in on my busy morning, making them chuckle at my description of Santa Claus’s wife, making Lottie sigh wistfully as I described lunch with Morgan, and leaving them as frustrated with my lack of progress as I was. But I still couldn’t bring myself to tell them about Marco’s deception. It hurt too much.

I watched the clock all afternoon, impatiently awaiting closing time, eager to have Marco answer my questions and put my mind to rest so I could dispose of my anger. I didn’t like being angry, especially with Marco, but he’d hidden information from me, and that wasn’t something I could ignore. And although there were orders to fill and customers to wait on, I also couldn’t stop my brain from reviewing every conversation I’d had and every scrap of information I’d learned on the case, like a clip show of annoying movie trailers that played continuously.

Three items stood out. Eve Taylor’s revelation about Marco’s history with Ryson; the mysterious white Mustang; and Eudora’s cryptic behavior—although the idea of flowers having spirits still escaped me. What about thorns? Did they scream in silent protest when I stripped them off a stem? It wasn’t a comforting thought.

At fifteen minutes before five o’clock the bell over the door tinkled, signaling an incoming customer. Since Lottie was up to her knuckles in planting soil—did a bag of dirt have a spirit?—and Grace had just left for a hair appointment, I quickly slipped through the curtain to find a tall, thin woman standing at the counter, one elbow resting on top, impatiently tapping her long, glossy fingernails (painted a shade I’d have to call “exceedingly violet”).

She had a narrow face, sharp cheekbones, a hawkish nose, and a long jawline, all covered with a heavy coating of makeup. Her lips were lumpy, as though they’d been plumped with collagen in random locations. Her hair was long, curly, and as shiny as doll’s tresses. Her knee-length jade green sweater was belted at the waist, hiding most of her skinny jeans, below which I could see jade green, pointy-toed high heels.

“May I help you?” I asked cheerfully, hoping she’d be quick.

She peered at me over the rims of her jade green sunglasses, taking me all in before pulling them off to reveal enough black eyeliner to startle a raccoon. She shook back her hair—at least she tried, but those curls weren’t budging—then pointed to the refrigerated display case and, in a voice that sounded reedy and strained, said, “I want all of your bright pink roses.
Bright
pink. No pale ones. No white. No peach. No two-toned.”

I liked a woman who knew what she wanted, especially when I was in a hurry. There was only one problem. “I’m afraid we have only two bright pinks left. If you want to come back in the morning—”

“Just give them to me.”

I opened the case and removed the pair so she could inspect them—fine specimens of the bright pink tea rose called Fragrant Cloud. “Are these okay?”

“They’ll do. I want to take them with me. They’re a gift. For someone special.” She looked down her nose at me as though daring me to contradict.

“No problem.” I added several fern stems, wrapped them in pretty floral paper, and gave her one of my Bloomers pens and a small gift card to sign.

She waved them away as if I’d slobbered on them. “You write the card for me.”

Fine. Anything to get her out of the shop fast. “What would you like to say?”

She walked over to the small wicker settee we used for display and made herself comfortable, crossing one long leg over the other. “Ready? Okay. To the sweetest friend in the world, for all that you’ve done.”

In my best penmanship, I wrote it down. “There you go. Do you want to sign your name?”

“I’m not finished.”

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Now, where was I? You made me forget where I was.”

I repeated what she’d dictated; then she continued, “For sitting up with me all night and holding my hand, for helping me work through my shame, for putting up with my . . .”

I flipped the card over and squeezed in as many words as possible. And still she talked, until I had to hold up a hand to interrupt her. “Sorry. I ran out of room.” I grabbed another card. “Okay. I’m ready.”

She sighed, clearly annoyed with me. “You’ll have to read that last line again.”

“For putting up with my . . . ?”

“Oh, yes. With my temper tantrums, and my ravings . . .”

Whoever this friend was, he or she needed more than two roses. I filled a second card, and the woman kept going, pausing every so often to gather her thoughts. Lottie came through with her purse, ready to go home. I glanced at her and she rolled her eyes. Obviously she’d been listening from the other room.

“Now, let me see what you’ve written.” The woman held out a hand, empresslike, waiting for me to walk them over to her.

I had a feeling that whoever came up with that motto about the customer always being right had never actually worked in a retail shop. I glanced at the clock as the woman read over the cards, her lips moving with each word. When she’d finished, she sighed and held them to her heart, a single tear forging a canal through her makeup as it rolled down her cheek.

“Isn’t that just too beautiful?”

“Lovely.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“No. I mean it. Beautiful words. You must be a writer.” It was a white lie, but again, much kinder than the truth. Plus, it was good practice for the upcoming confrontation with my mother.

“I should be a writer, I know, but alas, I’m not.” She glanced at me, clearly expecting me to respond, then gave up and volunteered the information. “I’m an actress.” She raised her wrist to her forehead and sighed dramatically. “Yes, an actress on this funny little stage we call life.”

An actress. Gee, there was a surprise.

Her wrist came down. “Perhaps you’ve seen me.”

“I don’t get out much.”

“Oh, come now. Surely you’ve seen me. At the New Chapel Opera House?”

I shrugged.

“In
Waiting for Godot
? It’s playing right now.”

“Oh, sure. Now I remember you. Brilliant acting.” Those little lies were coming more easily now. Was that a good thing? I darted a quick glance at the clock. Yikes. It was five! Time to get her out of there. “So, was there anything else you wanted to say?”

She studied the cards again, then handed them back. “Yes.”

Ten minutes later, I was on the eighth card and she was still on the settee. When she paused I said, “I really hate to interrupt, but I’m going to have to close up shop. I have an appointment—actually, I’m late.”

“Well, then.” She rose in a graceful, swanlike move and swayed over to me. “Give me your pen.”

I handed her the pen and a fresh card, tamping down the urge to snap, “Would you get on with this?” She nibbled the cap—I had to remember to throw that baby away—then started to write, changed her mind, started again, and finally scribbled something that looked like
Love, Videt
, and handed the card back. The pen, I noticed, went into the pocket of her sweater.

“What do I owe you?”

I stuffed her cards into envelopes—it took three—then did a tally. “Two roses and, let me see . . . nine cards will be ten dollars even.” It should have been more, but I couldn’t wait to get rid of her.

Videt, or whatever her name was, pulled out a ten and tossed it onto the counter with a sniff. “Much too expensive.” Snatching the wrapped flowers and the stack of cards, she swayed out the door.

I grabbed my purse, set the alarm, locked the shop, and dashed up the sidewalk to Down the Hatch, only to find that Videt had beaten me there. She stood just inside, trying to get one of the waitresses to seat her, probably so she could make a dramatic entrance. But it was Gert who noticed her first, and no one, not even a poodle-headed actress, could make Gert behave like a hostess.

“Over here, doll.” She motioned Videt into a booth as though she were a plane taxiing into the hangar, set a plastic-coated menu in front of her, and said, “I’ll be back for your order.”

Then Gert saw me, and a smile lifted her sagging jowls. “Hi, doll. The boss is in his office. Have a seat and I’ll send him out.”

“Thanks anyway, but I need to talk to him privately.”

“Uh-oh. Sounds like he’s in the doghouse.”

I made my way past the customers lined up at the bar and up the short hallway to Marco’s door. I rapped twice; then, hearing a quick “Come in,” I peeked inside and saw that he was on the phone. He motioned for me to come in, so I shut the door, took a seat on one of the sling-back chairs, and pretended to be captivated by my overgrown cuticles, but totally unaware of what he was saying.
“You were having a telephone conversation? No way!”

“Yes, I will.” He checked his watch. “In an hour. Because I have something to do first. Okay, Ma, forty-five minutes. No, I don’t want your lasagna to get cold. I promise I’ll be there at six.” He hung up, rubbed his eyes, and gave me a long-suffering look. “If I can survive my mother’s visit, I can survive anything.”

“How long is she staying?”

“She hasn’t decided. A week—an eternity.”

“Doesn’t your sister live in town? Maybe your mother could stay with her.” Why was I trying to solve another problem for him? I couldn’t even get a handle on the first one.

“Gina is camping out at my place now, too. She says she has the stomach flu and needs mothering, but I think she and my brother-in-law are on the outs again. So, anything new turn up on the case?”

“Oh, yeah. Something turned up all right.”

He sat forward expectantly. “Tell me.”

“For starters, I found out that you arrested Dennis Ryson for a convenience store robbery a few years back.”

Marco leaned back in his chair but said nothing.

“I also learned that you got a reprimand from Kellerman because of that arrest, and then you quit the force.”

“Wait. Time out. I quit the force because I was fed up with all their Mickey Mouse bureaucracy. The reprimand over Ryson’s arrest was just the last straw. It was a good arrest, yet they chose to believe some thief’s word over mine.”

“You asked me to help you, Marco; then you purposefully withheld critical information from me. Does that make sense in anyone’s world? No wonder the prosecutor targeted you. You have an honest-to-goodness motive.”

He pressed his fingertips against his eyebrows. “All right. I should have brought it up, but my concern was that if you knew about my history with Ryson, your judgment would be clouded.”

“So you don’t trust my judgment. Didn’t it occur to you that I might uncover the information by other means? I mean, if my detective skills are so bad, why did you ask me to help?”

His palms came down on the desk. “Hold on a minute. Before you get completely bent out of shape, what about trusting
my
judgment? Have you stopped to consider that I might have a reason for not telling you about my history with Ryson? Where is your trust in me?”

I hadn’t seen that one coming. And since I couldn’t think of a good answer, we sat there glaring at each other, obviously at a stalemate. I saw him glance at his watch and knew it was time to go. Maybe we both needed some distance, anyway, to sort things out. I pushed myself out of the chair and headed for the door.

“Hold up a minute, Abby.”

“That’s okay. Your lasagna is waiting. I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble with your mother.”

He caught up with me at the door (only because I let him). “The food will keep, and so will Mom. Come on. Look at me, Sunshine.”

I raised my gaze to his, drinking in those soulful, earnest eyes as he ran a fingertip along my jawline. Then his hands gently cupped my face and his penetrating gaze searched mine, as though trying to peer deep into my heart. I tried not to blink because I knew that scratchy feeling behind my eyelids was angry tears just looking for a reason to escape.

“I was wrong, Abby, and I’m sorry. You have to believe me when I say that I trust you more than anyone I know. I should have been up front with you about Ryson.”

“Damn right you should have. So why weren’t you?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Pride. Shame. I don’t know. It was a bad time for me. I didn’t want you to know, is all.”

“That’s your reason for nearly sabotaging your case? Marco, you know all about my failures. Why didn’t you want to share that with me?”

“Vanity. Male ego. Stupidity. I’m sure you’ll come up with a better name for it.”

“Stupidity works for me.”

A tiny grin lifted one corner of his mouth. He reached out for a lock of my hair, giving it a playful tug. “Are we good again?”

“Not so fast, bud. What about in the future?”

He studied me, looking for cues as to how he should answer. Then he got it. “I’ll be up front with you in the future, too.”

“About everything?”

His lips pressed together, and I knew there was a battle of wills going on inside his head. As Reilly had pointed out, Marco played things close to the chest. To be completely open with me wasn’t an easy place for him to be. But he gave a nod, and for Marco, a man of few words, that said a lot.

Could I stay angry with him after that? Bruised around the edges, yes, but not angry. It was all I could do not to throw my arms around his neck and rain kisses on his face, but I pretended to be cool about it. “Good. Then I promise to trust your judgment, too.”

He slipped his arms all the way around me and pulled me into his safe, warm embrace. I pressed the side of my face against his T-shirt, breathing in the male essence of him, feeling the steady thud of his heart. After a full minute of hugging, though, we were zooming past the warm feelings and heading into the hot zone.